


Apple

by DaScribbla



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dear Lord Forgive Me For What I Have Done, Guilt, M/M, POV Second Person, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, READ THE ARCHIVE WARNING, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-15 02:53:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9215525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaScribbla/pseuds/DaScribbla
Summary: You watch him be him, and, for a moment, you feel the way Eve must have when she held the apple, red and curved in her palm.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Manzana](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14006010) by [Sthefy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sthefy/pseuds/Sthefy)



> I regret to say that this is not the only fic I'll be writing for these two. This is all RedFlagsAndDiamonds' fault.

Perhaps it’s narcissism that makes you go after him -- because you do see yourself in him. A younger, idealized self, less cynical. Perhaps the boy you were once, long ago, before Mom and Dad went driving off and never came back, before, well… Deep down, you know that you were nothing like him. 

But _oh_ , he’s gorgeous in a way that he shouldn’t be, with those eyes lit up with excitement and trust and all sorts of things that make your gut twist with guilt. This boy is hero material, and you’re a passé wannabe. You look at him, you watch him fight, you watch him twist away blindly at your touch, watch the bruises rise up like terrible flowers under his skin, and know that you’ve had a hand in ruining him. He won’t get a good night’s sleep again. 

You watch him be him, and, for a moment, you feel the way Eve must have when she held the apple, red and curved in her palm. _Maybe just a bite._ _A bite never hurt anyone._

And he wants you too. You’ve had years and years to learn what desire looks like, what a poor, frustrated crush looks like. You’ve broken hearts left and right, with little care. But this is different. Because Pepper is gone, and you know she’s not going to come back. No one handles your life now; perhaps that’s why it’s flying so quickly off the rails. 

You’ve broken hearts left and right. But you can’t break this one.

_Maybe just a bite._ Red and curved and all too tempting.

 

He watches you whenever you visit. You feel his eyes lock on every movement as if hoping that maybe this one, _this_ one will be the one where you move closer and don’t lose your nerve.

It’s a mistake, but mistakes seldom look so appetizing. 

Sometimes, you watch the videos of him in action, grainy pixels on YouTube. Sad, pedestrian technology, and certainly not enough to capture the real essence of how he moves. He hasn’t learned how to be mortal yet. He risks his life every week, but clearly considers death something far, far in the distance, not something that could hit him tomorrow. 

But he’s growing, and he’s learning. No hero is without scars. If Steve had gotten to him first, he would have learned that more quickly. They’d have explained it to him. Asked if he was sure. And he’d have said yes, the idiot.

But then again, Steve would never have sent a fucking adolescent into action. This wasn’this fight. But you dragged him in anyway. And now, neither of you can drag yourself out. In too deep. 

He starts calling you when the nightmares get too vivid. An awful choking sound, muffled through the phone speakers, as he tries to hide his crying. 

_“Let it out, kid,”_ you tell him. _“We all do it.”_

He _is_ a kid. It’s hard to forget. The kid goes to school, asks you for help with his algebra, calculus, Christ, how many math classes can he take at once? And he has the sensibilities of a kid, too. His texts are a mess of emojis. You buy him a computer -- _“assistance for the gifted,”_ you tell Aunt May, but the real reason is so you can see his eyes light up, mouth fall open like a character in the cartoons he probably still watches. Later, as you Skype so you can help with his homework in real time, you watch him dance in his seat to the Beyoncé song that filters out of the speakers.

He is a kid. It’s hard to forget. Yet somehow, you do it anyway.

_A bite never hurt anyone._

 

In the end, it’s impossible to know how the ice is broken. Probably, he got fed up with waiting. Sensed that, as an older man, you’d be uncomfortable with taking initiative. 

_“You know,”_ he says quietly one day over Skype, _“May’s going to be out tonight. Got a date. So, if you want to, you know, drop in…”_ He drops his gaze, fiddles with the bright blue mechanical pencil. You are silent. No. There’s no way the universe could give this kind of thing edification. Surely you've misunderstood. And yet…

The silence lingers and lingers. He looks back up at you, and you nod. 

_A bite never hurt anyone._

 

You learn to time it right. You learn to swallow your guilt, mask it with sarcasm and easy humor -- knock on the door, _“Pizza!”_

He learns that it’s not easy for you. He learns to mask his own euphoria. But when you’re buried in him, those hands come up to your shoulders and the triumph rings in his eyes. He needs the occasional pause -- too much sensory data at once -- but he always comes back for more. You pass a hand through his rumpled hair, can’t help grinning back at the dazed smile he gives you. 

_“You all right?”_

_“Yeah. Yeah, ’m okay.”_

A thousand memories from a thousand different books and TV shows and movies flash through your mind -- notably Nabokov, good God, you’re not like _that_ are you, he does _want_ this, doesn’t he? 

Little breaths against your neck, fingers drumming a slow tattoo over your back as you move together. A kiss, a smile. You remember Eve, poor Eve, who ruined it for everyone else. The apple in her hand. Good God, who could blame her?

You bend your head and take the bite. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Tumblr @williamshakennotstirred.


End file.
